The Darkling Thrush
by gwynhefar
Summary: So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware. -Thomas Hardy


When Phil walks into his office, he finds Clint Barton lounging on his couch. Clint's still in his tac suit, and apart from an extra layer of grime, he doesn't look any differently than he did the last time Phil had seen him on the mission feed three days ago. But then he wouldn't, would he? Phil ignores the archer and heads for his desk, resolutely not looking at the couch.

"It was a trap, you know," Clint says, tone deliberately casual, "we have a mole."

"I know," Phil answers after a second's hesitation. "We're looking into it."

"That's it?" Clint asks incredulously, straightening up out of his slouch and fixing Phil with a glare. "'_We're looking into it'_? That's all you're going to say?"

Phil sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "What do you want, Barton?" he asks tiredly, "an apology?" Phil is absurdly proud that his voice doesn't break because an apology is the least of what he wishes he could say to Clint.

Clint snorts. "It'd be a nice start," he says snidely, annoyance and frustration clear in his voice. "What the hell, Coulson, where was my backup?"

"Late," Phil answers shortly. Too late. It had only been ten minutes, but a lot could happen in ten minutes. A lot did happen.

"Well, _obviously_," Clint says with a huff, but the annoyance on his face turns to concern when Phil remains silent. "What is up with you, Coulson?" he asks, "you haven't even asked how I am yet. Usually you'd be dragging me down to Medical by now."

Phil chokes back a bark of inappropriate laughter. Medical. Like they could do anything. "I know exactly how you are, Barton," he says instead. "Why are you here?"

The expression on Clint's face is a mixture of hurt and confusion. "I figured you'd want to hear my report," he says slowly, as if the answer were obvious. At any other time it would have been.

"We have a pretty good idea of what happened, Agent Barton," Phil says formally. Because no, he really _really_ doesn't want to hear Clint's report.

It seems Clint wasn't expecting that answer. His eyes widen and the hurt look in them deepens. Phil looks away. "So I shouldn't . . . I guess I shouldn't have come back here then?"

Clint's voice is small and dejected and Phil clutches at his desk with white-knuckled fingers. _No_, he thinks. _Not like this._ "Probably not," is what he says.

"Do you want me to go?" Clint asks softly.

_No!, _Phil wants to say. But he can't. Because he can't function if Clint is going to be there, always just out of reach. He takes a deep breath and forces the words out. "You should probably . . . . move on," he says. That's what they call it, isn't it?

Clint's shoulders slump and he sags a bit, staring at his lap for a few moments before he looking up at Phil.

"Okay," he says quietly, "I . . . okay." He stands up slowly, stiffly, as if in pain. "I'll just . . . go," he says, with a vague motion toward the closed door, eyes blank and shuttered. Phil closes his own eyes so he doesn't have to see it happen.

Phil hears the click of his door opening and the soft sweep it makes as it swings. Half a heartbeat later he realises why that's wrong.

Phil's eyes fly open again and he stares at the office door. It's very slightly ajar, as if it had swung closed behind someone but not quite latched. Phil had closed it when he came in, he knows he did.

He stands and moves around the desk to stand in front of the door. Slowly, he reaches a hand out and holds his breath when his fingers meet solid wood. Definitely real, and definitely _not_ closed.

Figments of Phil's imagination don't move like they're in pain. Ghosts don't need to open a door to walk through it. Phil yanks the door open fully and dashes into the hall.

"Clint!" he calls, voice breaking this time. The hallway is empty except for a lone figure limping slowly toward the stairs. Clint turns and looks over his shoulder, impassive mask firmly in place, and raises one eyebrow in query.

Phil walks down the hall toward him at a speed just shy of breaking into a run and stops abruptly two feet away.

"How did you get here?" he asks harshly.

Clint frowns in confusion. "What? Why?" he asks in genuine puzzlement, before his expression shuts down again. "I thought you already knew what happened?" he asks archly.

"_Please,"_ Phil says, straining for a normal tone. It must not work, because the concern is back in Clint's face.

"I stole a jet," he says finally.

"From where?" Phil demands.

"From the assholes who had me locked up in their basement. Where the hell did you think?" Clint asks, exasperation leaking into the words.

"Where _were_ you?" Phil asks, desperate to clarify.

"Somewhere in Jersey. Coulson, what the hell is going on?"

"They took out your tracker," Phil says, dazed.

Clint grimaces. "Yeah, I'm gonna have to get a new one," he says absently before uncertainty flashes across his face. "Um, I mean, I _thought_ I was gonna have to get a new one, but-"

"Let me see," Phil orders, cutting him off.

"Sir," Clint starts to object.

"_Let. Me. See._" Phil grinds out.

Wordlessly, Clint pushes up the hem of his tunic, revealing a white bandage taped just above the curve of his left hipbone. Phil reaches out and tears the bandage half off, revealing a short but deep gouge in the flesh of Clint's side. He wasn't gentle, and a few drops of blood leak out.

Figments and ghosts don't _bleed_, Phil thinks, his pulse roaring in his ears. He presses the bandage back down, gentler this time, and feels the warmth of Clint's skin beneath his hand.

"Medical. Now," he orders, taking hold of Clint's arm and ushering him toward the emergency elevator. The concern in Clint's expression has turned to apprehension, but he says nothing, allowing himself to be escorted as swiftly as Phil can make him walk to the infirmary, past a handful of gaping nurses, and straight to one of the doctors.

Doctor Emerson looks up as they come in and when he sees who Phil has brought in his eyes widen.

"Agent Barton!" he exclaims in surprise, and something in Phil unclenches with the doctor's acknowledgement of Clint's presence. "We thought you were-"

Phil cuts him off with a sharp shake of his head. "Check him out," he orders curtly. Clint rolls his eyes, but obediently hops up on the table.

They've been through this many times before - too many - and for once Clint doesn't complain as Emerson pokes and prods and makes little hmm-ing noises under his breath. He feels around a slight bump on Clint's scalp, making the archer wince, and then pulls back to check Clint's eyes.

"No concussion," he says happily, as he cleans and disinfects a few scratches on Clint's torso, and rubs some cream into the abrasions around his wrists. He cleans and disinfects the gash on Clint's hip too, and secures it with a pair of butterfly strips before replacing the bandage

"You're a bit dehydrated," Emerson says to Clint as he steps back, "but not enough to keep you. Drink lots of water, keep that gash clean, let me know if your head starts hurting more than it should or you start running a fever, I'm sure you know the drill by now," he concludes with a wry smile.

The last bit of tension in Phil's gut finally dissolves with the doctor's report, and only years of professional instinct and stubbornness keep him from collapsing with relief.

"You happy now?" Clint asks, all fond indulgence.

Phil nods. "My office," he says, voice hoarse. Clint hops down off the table and heads for the exit with customary speed.

Again, they don't speak as they travel, Clint apparently deciding to wait until they get to the office to demand answers and Phil's head still reeling with the knowledge that Clint is here. That he is real. That he is _fine._

When they reach his office, Phil lets Clint proceed him in, closes the door behind him, and finally drops the rigid control he's been maintaining for the last three days. He sags against the closed door, letting it hold part of his weight, and takes a deep breath.

"What's going on, sir?" Clint asks, voice tender and concerned.

"They took your tracker out," Phil says with a short laugh, because of all the scenarios his mind had thrown at him over the past few days, each worse than the last, this is one he never even considered. "They took your tracker out, and they left it in the warehouse. Along with your bow, and at least three bodies. And then they blew up the warehouse." Phil looks up, and he can see comprehension dawn on Clint's face.

"We thought you were-," Phil stops and takes another deep breath. "_I_ thought you were . . . and then I walk in here and you're just sitting on the couch like it was any other mission and I thought . . . I thought I was seeing things." Phil looks up and meets Clint's horrified gaze. "I thought I was going mad," he admits.

"Phil . . ." Clint says, and the sound of his given name on Clint's lips makes Phil's heart beat faster.

Clint takes a hesitant step forward and Phil pushes away from the door to meet him, grabbing the archer's shoulders and pulling him close, one hand tangling in the blonde-brown hair and the other clasping the back of his neck. Phil touches his lips to Clint's softly, hesitantly, helplessly. Even if Clint pushes him away, it will have been worth it.

Clint doesn't push him away. Instead, the archer comes alive under Phil's hands, clutching at Phil's back, moaning into his lips and deepening the kiss there isn't an inch of Phil's mouth that doesn't feel claimed.

Phil hums in relief and feels the world around him right itself and click into place. He pulls back slightly, forehead resting against Clint's, gazing into those blue eyes alight with awe and joy.

"Don't you ever, _ever_ do that to me again."


End file.
